Mia Marconi - Little Girl Lost: The true story of a broken child

Ive always said that giving birth to a child does not make you a mother and simply fathering a child does not make you a father. What makes you a mother and a father is what comes next: sitting up all night with your little one while theyre fighting a fever; watching The Lion King on a loop; covering the kitchen with poster paint, sticky tape and cake mix; and endless visits to the park to swing your beautiful son or daughter on the same swing and slide them down the same slide. Its repetitive and, dare I say it, occasionally boring, but that contact with your child makes them feel loved and valued. Its called unconditional love, not childcare. But over the years I had begun to realise that not all parents are capable of loving their children, and that those children who enter the world cocooned by the love of their mother and father are the lucky ones.

Kira initially came to live with us for respite care, and she was a child who could not comprehend the meaning of the word love. Kira could have written a doctorate on rejection, but love was a mystery to her.

She came into our home one Friday night. When you work on the frontline in foster care you very quickly realise that the most urgent calls come on a Friday, usually just as youre about to head out of the door to take your other kids somewhere, or as youre snuggling up in bed with a good book. Theres something about having to face the weekend with a demanding child that galvanises people into action.

On this particular Friday I was trying to make dinner, surrounded by chaos. My own five children were demob-happy and already getting into the weekend spirit. Mum, I cant find my football shorts, shouted Alfie. Mum, Rubys got my favourite pyjamas. No I havent, shes got mine! Mum, Jacks eating my slippers. Mum! Sleepovers were being planned and sporting activities discussed at top volume as usual, but through the noise I somehow heard the phone ring.

I picked it up. Can you hear me? said a calm, professional voice that sounded vaguely like a social worker. I couldnt, and took the phone into my quiet room, one that the children knew to stay out of. It was my room, peaceful, with warm red walls and a thick fluffy carpet, and as soon as I entered it I felt instantly peaceful. Sorry, I can now.

We need an emergency placement for the week. Its respite for another set of carers. One of the carers has been in an accident. Shes broken her hip and is struggling to cope. Can you help?

How old is the poor little mite? And are we her only option? I said, playing for time. As much as I wanted to help, all our weekend plans would take time to change and I had to be sure I could change them before I committed.

Kira is three, she said. Im afraid you are the only option. She hasnt been with these carers for long and shes only just come into care, so obviously this is all incredibly disorientating for her. She cant cope as they are in the midst of a crisis. She is quite needy and her behaviour can be challenging, and the carers are struggling with her. They say shes being quite difficult.

My mind was racing. From what she had said, I knew that Kira would need one hundred per cent of my attention, and I wondered how I would juggle everything I had to do and give her the care that she needed.

Please, said the desperate voice on the end of the phone.

Okay, I said. I love little girls anyway and I couldnt say no to a three-year-old in need. I heard the social worker breathe a sigh of relief. She sounded so relieved, in fact, that she was close to tears. How long will you be? I asked.

About an hour. Is that okay?

Fine. See you soon.

I opened the door of my peaceful, warm red room and stepped back into the chaos. Right, kids! I have an announcement to make. We have a little girl staying with us for the week. Her name is Kira and shes three.

Does she like Barbie? Ruby and Isabella said immediately. Francesca pulled a face. I hate Barbie, she said.

I dont know what she likes yet, but Im sure shell love Barbie, and bike rides, I added, looking at Francesca, who was the tomboy of the two.

In the meantime everyone was hungry, so while they continued asking questions I gave them fish fingers and chips, a Friday night favourite, and cups half full of Robinsons orange squash. I had learnt over the years to fill their cups only half full as more often than not they got knocked over and the contents would end up swimming around their dinner plates. Half-full cups offered damage limitation.

It was early December and unusually cold. The night was bitter and bleak, and just looking out of the window made me shiver. I could tell that snow was fast approaching; you could smell it in the air.

After wed eaten, my four kids got on with their homework and I tackled the dishes. I looked at them, aged between four and fourteen, and smiled. Martin was helping Alfie, who was still looking for his football strip, while his twin Isabella was tackling a large colouring book. Francesca and Ruby, who were thirteen and fourteen, were discussing what to wear to a party the following night. Everyone was chatting and laughing, and for a change there was no bickering. I smiled again. Our activities that night were just straightforward family routine, which as a parent you take for granted, but when you look back you realise how special those moments were when you were all together and just enjoying each others company.

A little while later the children heard a car pull up outside the house, and they scampered to the front door like excited puppies, tripping over each other as they went. I followed them, and as I opened it a blast of frosty air hit me full in the face. It reminded me that I must turn up the heating and get the extra blankets out of the airing cupboard. Everyone had cosy duvets, but an extra blanket on top made them even cosier.

It was the social worker, and clinging to her neck was the smallest, frailest little girl, wrapped in a slightly grubby blue fleece blanket. The blanket hid the colour of her hair and most of her face.

This is Kira, the social worker said. Kira, this is Mia and youll be staying with her. She handed Kira to me, and I unwrapped her blanket and saw a skinny little girl with unruly dark hair, an Asian complexion and angry eyes as dark as thunder. I looked at her clothes. She was dressed in blue jogging bottoms and a Thomas the Tank Engine jumper. I caught the social workers eye. She doesnt like pink, she said, reading my mind. I smiled at Kira. There is no rule that says girls have to like pink, I said, and she blinked.